


Laughing Just to Keep from Crying

by glimpsesfromanivorytower (rosewiththorns)



Category: Hockey RPF
Genre: Anal Sex, Cuddling, Disappointment, Edmonton Oilers, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Kissing, Laughter, M/M, Oral Sex, Repayment, Rookies, Trades, Victory, failure - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-21
Updated: 2016-08-21
Packaged: 2018-08-10 02:22:52
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,274
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7826497
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rosewiththorns/pseuds/glimpsesfromanivorytower
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Taylor takes Connor under his wing, and Connor is determined to repay Taylor once Taylor is traded.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Laughing Just to Keep from Crying

“You don’t know my mind. When you see me laughing, I’m laughing just to keep from crying.”—Hugh Laurie

Laughing Just to Keep from Crying

Call of Destiny

It was the day after the draft—when the Oilers had won their version of the Stanley Cup, establishing a true Suck Dynasty of (count them on your fingers if you had to) four first overall picks in six years, which was an impressive feat from a purely objective prospective despite the fact that it left Taylor as depressed as a report card of straight F’s—when Taylor’s cell phone buzzed in his pocket. Sprawled on his bed with his muscles aching after an intense bout of off-season training, Taylor scowled as he withdrew his vibrating cell from his jeans. 

As he glanced down at the number glowing grass-green on the screen, Taylor’s scowl deepened into a glower when he saw that it was a call from his agent that couldn’t be ignored (especially since Bobby was prone to repeated phoning until he got a response). Wondering when his mother’s hero and favorite hockey player had become a mild annoyance who must be endured because he did provide the advice and support Taylor hated to admit he needed, Taylor answered, “Hello, Bobby.” 

“I don’t know if you saw the draft—“Bobby Orr began, but Taylor cut him off brusquely. 

“The whole hockey world saw the draft.” Taylor, who despised beating around the bush almost as much as he loathed the endless losing that seemed to be synonymous with being an Oiler, rolled his eyes. “I’m not blind. I saw we—that is to say, the Oilers—won the Next Great One. I also saw that the next Gretzky didn’t look particularly thrilled to put on Gretzky’s old uniform. Not that I can blame the kid for that. I mean, who the fuck wants to go to a team that can’t stop losing?” 

“For God’s sake, don’t tell him that.” As always, Bobby sounded appalled by Taylor’s irreverent bluntness. 

“I wasn’t going to.” Cowed and wounded by the sharp rebuke, Taylor nibbled his lip, peeling the skin back until he tasted the metallic tang of blood. “I can keep my trap shut, you know.” 

“Good,” Bobby replied, tart as a freshly squeezed lemon. “You can show off your newfound skill when you meet Connor two days from now.” 

“I’m meeting Connor two days from now?” Taylor’s forehead furrowed, because such an appointment had certainly not been on his calendar before Bobby calle. Not that Taylor minded meeting the prodigy everyone hailed as a generational talent sooner rather than later. Connor was the new hope for the Oilers, and Taylor could use all the hope he could get in his life. 

“Yes, I’ve got it all planned.” Bobby was silent for a moment and then went on, “I want you to meet Connor because I think it would be a good idea if he lived with you.” 

“You think it would be a good idea if he lived with me?” echoed Taylor, aware that he sounded every inch the intellectually-challenged jock, but he couldn’t help it, since he liked to pass a new idea around in his head as if it were a puck in a tic-tac-toe play before he reached a conclusion, but those outside his brain were rarely patient with his thought process. 

“That’s what I just said.” Bobby’s curt manner suggested that he believed Taylor wasn’t focusing adequately on the conversation. “This is important, Taylor. Pay attention. We’re talking about the rookie year of a hockey prodigy. He has to go to the right place his rookie year. You know what could happen if he doesn’t.” 

Taylor shuddered, even though he was soaked in the sweat of the dog days of summer, because he did know that rookies were expected to serve—sexually and otherwise—any veteran players who took them in, and many veterans had bizarre and even abusive proclivities. It was institutionalized rape given nicer—almost playful—names like hazing, but Taylor couldn’t let that happen to Connor. He’d never met Connor but something about the naked despair Connor had struggled not to display on national television had endeared the boy to Taylor and made him want to protect him. Connor would be his—not to use for sexual gratification, but to protect and nourish since he felt like an embodiment of hope, promise, and innocence that Taylor couldn’t bear to see harmed or stifled. 

“I do know.” Taylor swallowed a lump in his throat. “I won’t let that happen to him, I swear. I’ll take him in and look after him.” 

“He won’t need you looking after him.” Bobby emitted a dry chuckle. “He’ll look after you. He’s already better at cleaning than you.” 

“Who gives a shit about cleaning?” Aggravated with Bobby for talking more like a mother than an agent, Taylor lifted his palms in the air in an irked gesture that he was well-aware was invisible to Bobby. “Everything just gets messed up again, anyway. If there’s anything being in Edmonton has taught me, it’s that.” 

A Date to Remember 

“I don’t know what to say,” Connor, who appeared to be more interested in curling his pork lo mein around his fork than eating it in the Chinese restaurant—which had a name Taylor had no prayer of being able to pronounce or remember—had arranged for them to meet. 

Taylor didn’t have a clue what to say, either, but since that wasn’t the sort of thing he was supposed to admit to a rookie, he said instead, “Ask me anything, kid.” 

“Anything?” Connor’s eyes widened until they were the size of plums. 

“Sure.” Taylor popped a slice of teriyaki chicken into his mouth and savored the mingling of flavors on his tastebuds. “I reserve the right not to answer, but I won’t lie.” 

“I knew there had to be a catch.” Connor continued to twist his fork through his lo mein without eating any of it. “At least you’re honest, though.” 

“Give me a chance to be even more honest.” Taylor flashed a lopsided grin across the table, wondering if he had ever looked as young and old—as if the weight of the world was on his not yet stooping shoulders—-as Connor did now. “Ask a question.” 

“If you insist.” Connor shot Taylor a sidelong glance and then the words tumbled out of him in a rush, as though he reared losing courage if he did not speak in a jumble, “Were you serious about what you Tweeted on draft day?” 

“About you not ruining what we’d built in Edmonton?” Taylor was stalling for time since there had only been one Tweet he’d made on draft day that Connor could possibly be referencing. 

“Yeah.” Connor nodded, gaze as earnest as a Golden Retriever’s. 

“Of course I was serious.” Taylor assumed a deadpan expression, deciding that Connor needed a lesson in taking life less seriously if he was going to live with Taylor whose favorite coping mechanism was sarcasm. Life in Edmonton was so dark that it was impossible to survive without developing black humor. “I don’t want you ruining our long run of basement finishes. That would just be disgraceful.” 

“You’re joking.” Connor’s lip was twitching as if it couldn’t choose between frowning and laughing. “You don’t enjoy losing.” 

“Duh.” Taylor smirked. “If you don’t laugh in Edmonton, you’ll go insane in a year. Nobody enjoys losing but it’s inevitable, and it will crush you if you don’t figure out how to laugh at failure. Laugh to keep from crying or the tears will drown you, kid. That’s my most important lesson.” 

“Humor is hard for me.” Connor was chewing his lip instead of his lo mein. “I take everything seriously.” 

“Humor is hard for everybody.” Taylor speared another slab of teriyaki chicken and stuffed it in his mouth, reflecting that it hadn’t been too many years since he had been serious about everything, but Edmonton had chased away the grimness in him. The situation in Edmonton was too bleak to add to it by not seeing the levity in otherwise horrible circumstances. “That’s why most people can’t quit their day jobs to become standup comedians. Now eat and I don’t mean your lips.” 

“Sorry.” As he uttered the characteristic Canadian phrase, Connor released his lip from the grip of his teeth with a speed that suggested he had been electrocuted by Taylor’s gentle, teasing chiding. “I know it’s a disgusting habit.” 

“Every hockey player has to have at least one disgusting habit—it’s like a law or something,” remarked Taylor. “Yours is almost adorable by hockey player standards.” 

Connor laughed, and Taylor knew that they would be all right, taking the pressure off one another as they fought to drag Edmonton kicking and screaming out of the league basement. 

A Bad Influence

“I just got back from a meeting with Pete Chiarelli,” Bobby opened without a greeting as soon as Taylor picked up his ringing cell phone. “He was reluctant to have Connor live with you. Care to guess why?” 

“No,” Taylor muttered, feeling like a victim of the Spanish Inquisition and not aware what offense with which he was being charged. “Did I not tank hard enough last season?” 

“Don’t even joke about such things, Taylor,” snapped Bobby, tone as cutting as a well-honed skate blade, and Taylor, grateful that this dressing-down was occurring via phone so his reactions were unable to be seen by the person who was berating him, flinched. “Pete saw your Tweet and didn’t find it very witty.” 

“Humor is personal.” Taylor attempted to sound flippant although Bobby’s reprimand stung like alcohol in a wound. “Can’t please everyone.” 

“Count me as one of those not pleased.” Bobby obviously wasn’t done with ripping into Taylor’s hide. “What the hell possessed you to send out a Tweet like that, eh?” 

“Freedom of speech.” Taylor blinked back the dampness that always welled in his eyes when he was bawled out by one of the legends of the game, something that never got any easier. “Black humor.” 

“Pete interpreted it as you crying out to be traded.” Taylor could hear Bobby’s lips thinning even if he couldn’t see that sign of Bobby’s disapproval. “Were you crying out to be traded? Because if you were, next time tell me first, so we can put in a proper trade request, instead of posting something that will piss off your GM on Twitter.” 

“I don’t want to get traded,” protested Taylor, his temper flaring and heating his words. “I want to be in Edmonton when this ship finally gets turned around and starts heading in the right direction. I want to make the playoffs here. I want to win a Cup here. I’ve said that a million times, and I never stopped meaning it.” 

“Well, if you want to stay in Edmonton, don’t make it’s losing the butt of your Twitter jokes.” Bobby wasn’t about to cease gnawing on this bone, that much was apparent. “That’s a great way to get your ass traded.” 

“All right.” Taylor massaged his throbbing temples and offered in the hope of appeasing Bobby, “Next time I’m about to post a sarcastic comment on Twitter, I’ll get your stamp of approval first, okay?” 

“Fine.” Bobby didn’t sound entirely placated but Taylor was too desperate for information not to ask the question burning a hole in his tongue. 

“Bobby, will Pete let Connor live with me?” Taylor pinched an earlobe to prevent his fingers from trembling as he awaited Bobby’s answer. 

“He couldn’t stop Connor from living with you.” Bobby’s response was not exactly reassuring. “He doesn’t control where Connor lives, but he definitely made it clear that he’s afraid you’ll be a bad influence on Connor.” 

“I’m one of the few people who’s experienced any kind of success in Edmonton.” Taylor snorted. “But I’ll be a bad influence on Connor. What a steaming load of crap.” 

“Just don’t do anything controversial.” Bobby sighed. “Do nothing to feed Pete’s fears. Can you do that?” 

“Of course.” Miffed, Taylor stuck up his nose. “Connor will still be an angel after he lives with me. I won’t clip his wings.” 

Unpacking Baggage 

“Want me to lend a hand?” Taylor asked, as he nudged open the door to Connor’s new bedroom in Taylor’s house to see Connor kneeling on the burgundy carpet as he shifted the contents of his leather suitcase into the maple dresser. 

“No, thank you.” Connor’s answer was as correct as the neat squares he folded his khakis into as he relocated them into a dresser drawer. “I’m sure I can manage.” 

“I’d be happy to help.” Taylor knelt by the suitcase, pulled out a tangerine T-shirt, and deposited it into an empty dresser drawer. 

“You shouldn’t be.” Connor suddenly seemed too nervous to look anywhere but at the pants he was unpacking. “I may be a rookie who doesn’t know much, but even I understand that I’m supposed to be the one serving you, not the other way around.” 

“I don’t want you to serve me.” Taylor snatched up Connor’s chin and lifted it until Connor’s eyes were locked on his own—perhaps more forcefully than he had intended, because Connor’s gaze was so panicked that it made Taylor’s stomach clench with the urge to vomit up the eggs over easy, grapefruit and yogurt, and toast with blueberry jam that he had scarfed down for breakfast in a mix that would definitely taste less delicious a second time around. “I’m here to help you, not the other way around. Got it?” 

“Yes, Taylor.” Connor’s eyes sank to the carpet, and Taylor felt like a tyrant when that was the last thing he wanted to be. “Sorry. I didn’t mean to be disrespectful.” 

“Don’t apologize. You did nothing wrong.” Taylor paused before continuing, “I just don’t want you to think that you have to serve me when you don’t.” 

“I’m living in your house.” Connor’s tongue flicked out to lick his lips, making him resemble a lizard, and that would have made Taylor laugh if the discussion had been less serious. “You’re paying my bills and teaching me the ropes. I have to submit to you and pay my way somehow.” 

“Those are the reasons people give about why rookies must serve veterans who take them in.” Taylor felt nothing but revulsion for those explanations and contempt for the veterans who made them because no matter what pretty words were attached to taking advantage of rookies it was still rape in all but name. “Do you know what service is typically required of rookies, huh?” 

“Yep.” Connor’s cheeks were flushed and his knuckles were white as he clutched a roll of socks in his fist. “I’m prepared to serve in any way you ask.” 

“No, you aren’t.” Taylor patted Connor’s flaming cheek to remove any sting his words might have carried. “You won’t have to be either, because I won’t be requiring any service from you.” 

“You’re taking me in.” Connor’s throat swelled as if he were gulping down a frog. “I have to serve you in some way or else I’ll never be able to repay you for taking me in.” 

“You don’t have to repay me.” Taylor’s hand drifted down to grasp Connor’s shoulder. “I want to have the satisfaction of doing something nice for you without expecting anything in return.” 

“I can’t accept a favor like that.” Connor jerked his head in negation. “I have to do something for you to show my appreciation.” 

“All right.” Taylor decided that if Connor were so determined to be useful he could be the one who vacuumed the carpets and scrubbed the toilets. “You can be in charge of the cleaning duty around here.” 

“Cleaning duty?” Connor cocked his head as if the phrase might have referred to some innuendo he was supposed to recognize and didn’t. 

“Vacuuming, dusting, wiping the counters, and keeping the bathrooms places where we don’t get more dirt on us.” Taylor slapped Connor’s knee. “Bobby claims you’re better at cleaning than I am. Guess I’m about to find out, aren’t I?” 

“I’m the best at cleaning.” Connor grinned. “You’ll see how quickly I can get this pig-sty looking respectable.” 

“Rookies these days.” Taylor shook his head in mock reproach. “So rude and unappreciative. In my day, no rookie would sass a veteran like that.” 

“In your day, games were filmed in black and white too.” Connor stuck out his tongue. 

“You’re confusing me with Bobby.” Taylor aimed a playful swipe at Connor’s ear, but, laughing, Connor ducked. 

The Loser has to Fall

“We suck.” More despondent than Taylor had ever seen him, Connor collapsed into the sofa, letting the upholstery gobble him, as they returned home from another rough night at the arena. “That’s another loss in the books.” 

“You can’t win every game when you’re in the NHL.” Taylor ruffled Connor’s hair, which smelled of sweat buried under shampoo. 

“It feels like we rarely win any.” Connor’s jaw tightened. “I don’t know how you could survive all these years of losing. I already feel like I can’t deal with it.” 

“The secret is to not put too much responsibility on yourself.” Taylor’s hand slipped down to knead the taut muscles in Connor’s neck. “You can’t control anyone but yourself, and you can’t make this team win by yourself. Just do the best you can, and that makes you a winner no matter what fans or the media believe on the contrary. If you’re working as hard as you can, don’t let anyone or anything drag you down. It’s easy to give up. It’s not so easy to keep smiling through the difficulties that come with being in an organization so mired in failure.” 

“It’s so frustrating.” A solitary tear trickled down Connor’s cheek. “I’ve never been in a situation that seemed so doomed to failure.” 

“No tears.” Tutting, Taylor swept the tear away from Connor’s cheek. “Remember what I told you when we first met about how you’ve got to laugh to keep from crying?” 

“What am I supposed to laugh about?” Connor’s face fell against Taylor’s chest as if he lacked the energy to hold it up. 

“I’ll tell you about the funniest trick I played on Adam Henrique in juniors.” Taylor smiled as he let Connor rest against his chest, drawing more warmth from his rookie than he ever could have from even the thickest woolen blanket. “If you aren’t laughing by the end of it, I’ll let you have a sundae…” 

Broken Spirit

“I thought playing and losing was the worst.” Connor’s fingers tugged on a loose thread in his comforter as Taylor tucked him into bed as he had ever night since Connor had sustained his injury. “But being injured and losing is even worse, if that’s possible, which apparently it is. I just feel so helpless being out of the lineup every night when if I were in it I might be able to help us win.” 

“Don’t get discouraged by those feelings.” Taylor laid a stilling hand over Connor’s yanking fingers and squeezed lightly. “Use them as motivation to speed along your recovery and make you successful when you return.” 

“I will,” Connor promised, and Taylor knew that Connor, like a sponge, would soak up the lesson. 

“That’s the spirit.” Taylor patted the blankets around Connor’s body to ensure he was wrapped in a comforting cacoon for the night. “Do you need anything else before I go to bed? Water? A bedtime story?” 

“Nothing.” Connor’s eyelids were already closing, the lashes casting shadows across his pale cheeks as he began to sail off to Dreamland. “Just stay with me until I fall asleep, will you? It’s lonely being injured.” 

“I’m right here.” Taylor bent over Connor like a shell encasing a turtle so that Connor could feel the heat of his body and understand on the most primal level that he was not alone during the dark, cold winter night while the winds howled against the window panes and the snow smashed against the roof. 

Taste of Victory

“We won,” exulted Connor, as he pulled two beers from the mini hotel refrigerator and tossed one to Taylor while opening one for himself. They were at the World Championships and already tipsy from the celebration in the locker room, but that didn’t prevent them from wanting to get drunk off their victory even more. For Oilers, triumph was a heady brew seldom tasted that had to be chugged down whenever it came. “Let’s raise a glass to being World Champions.” 

Connor slurred the final letter, but Taylor didn’t notice as he brushed his bottle against Connor’s, spilling some beer down his front, which he decided made him smell like a winner, not a drunk bum stumbling around a bad neighborhood. “Cheers.” 

“Do you like the taste of victory?” Connor leaned so close to Taylor that Taylor could have counted the sprinkling of freckles on his nose. 

“Victory tastes like beer.” Taylor guzzled down what had to be at least a third of his beer. “I like the taste of beer.” 

“Then you’ll love the taste of me.” Then, before Taylor—whose neurons were not synapsing at their usual speed—could process what was transpiring, Connor’s lips were slipping across his like eels, eels that carried the addictive quality of beer as well as the jolting power of an electric current. 

Taylor felt his penis surge into erectness, straining against his jeans as it pleaded to be invited out to join the debauchery, even as he pushed Connor away from him, panting, “We shouldn’t do this.” 

“Your lips say we shouldn’t.” Pouting, Connor cupped the tent in Taylor’s pants. “This says we should. Which part should I listen to?” 

“The part that actually speaks.” Taylor couldn’t bring himself to scoot away when Connor’s hand started to stroke the length of his cock, the friction of his jeans and boxers only heightening his arousal. 

“You don’t want me?” Connor unzipped Taylor’s fly and tugged down his underwear, exposing a dick that was standing at attention. “Because this says you do.” 

“I want you too much.” Taylor’s brain was too befuddled by alcohol to form a logical protest. “That’s why I shouldn’t do this with you. You’re the purest person in my life. I shouldn’t dirty you like this.” 

“There’s nothing dirty about this. Just two teammates showing love.” Connor smoldered Taylor’s penis with so many steaming kisses and lingering licks that instead of arguing he came in gasps and spasms, wondering if he would forget this in the morning, and not knowing whether he should hope to remember. 

A Repayment

“I can’t believe you were traded.” Connor sounded almost as numb as Taylor felt as they spread side-by-side across Taylor’s king bed. “You were such a big part of this team.” 

“This losing team.” Taylor’s jaw clenched. “I guess Chiarelli held that against me.”

“It wasn’t your fault we lost.” Connor’s tone was fiercer than Taylor had ever heard it and that only made Taylor’s heart break even more. “Many nights you were the only reason we won. I remember that even if Chiarelli forgets. At the World Championships, I thought we would be able to celebrate many more wins like that, but I guess that won’t happen now.” 

“A lot won’t happen now.” Taylor felt more miserable than he ever had when dealing with a losing season in Edmonton, because losing in Edmonton was less daunting and depressing than leaving it. 

“I won’t ever be able to repay you for everything that you did to me.” Connor’s hand slipped down to fiddle with the fly of Taylor’s jeans. “But let me try to.” 

“I shouldn’t.” Taylor didn’t even have the excuse of being drunk as he had at the World Championships if he allowed Connor to continue with pleasuring him. 

“I want to please you.” Connor’s fingers darted beneath Taylor’s underwear and teased the cock they found stiffening inside there. “And to serve you. I owe you at least one fucking for all the rent money you never made me pay.” 

“All right.” Taylor couldn’t deny that all the times he had felt Connor’s warmth beside him he hadn’t felt some desire to find out what the warmth inside Connor felt like, so he rasped out through a throat that could not have been huskier if it were sore, “Flip over.” 

Connor obeyed and Taylor trailed a hand along Connor’s rump, marveling at the paradoxical nature of its tender firmness, before wrapping a finger around the elastics of Connor’s sweatpants and briefs, guiding both down to rest in a tangle below Connor’s kneecaps. 

He stroked Connor’s thighs with his palm until he felt Connor shiver, and then he slid his fingers up to toy with the ring around Connor’s asshole. When ragged moans began to escape from Connor’s lips, Taylor lowered his head to lap at Connor’s tight entrance with his tongue, turning the moans into pleas for Taylor to take him. Once he was confident that Connor was suitably lubed, Taylor obliged, carrying them both to a place of bliss and oblivion where there were no more trades to make as indictments or fuckings to make as repayment, a land without debt or duty, a world without guilt or responsibility where freedom reigned unfettered. It wasn’t heaven—or even total happiness or peace—but it was the closest to that that Taylor had ever known during his life, and, as he dove into Connor, his flesh merging into Connor’s, that was enough.


End file.
